


Sherlock's Notebook

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Art, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Art, M/M, Moving In Together, Rimming, Top John Watson, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 20:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4850171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hired John Watson to model for him. He didn't expect him to stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this art](http://merindab.tumblr.com/post/129559713010/willietheplaidjacket-i-found-a-great-reference) by [willietheplaidjacket.](http://willietheplaidjacket.tumblr.com)

“Come in,” said Sherlock without looking up, getting his pencils and papers in order. A brand new notebook waited for him. The door opened and a stocky blond man stepped in, wearing only a robe. Well, he’d asked for different models. This one had been a soldier briefly before coming to university, Sherlock could see that with a single glance as he settled in his chair. The man was a bit nervous. Clearly this wasn’t work he usually did, but he needed money and so here he was.

“Remove the robe and kneel there,” said Sherlock, pointing.

He didn’t hesitate, kneeling, perhaps instinctively, just where the light would strike him best. He looked down, but the lines of his body were long. Sherlock sat up and gave a few more instructions so that the man’s right hand rest on his left thigh and his left arm was up, with his hand behind his head.

Gorgeous, thought Sherlock, then quickly dismissed the thought as a mere distraction. He was here only as a model, a bit of Sherlock’s time, and then he’d be gone. Nodding to himself, Sherlock picked up a pencil, noticing how still his subject held himself, as if he did this every day. Very good indeed.

Sherlock lost track of time as he worked, but the man didn’t move or complain. Finally Sherlock set down his pencil. “I’m done,” he said.

The man slowly moved as if he’d been in something of a trance. Sherlock couldn’t help but watch him stretch and roll his neck. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“John Watson,” he said, rubbing his wounded shoulder as if it was aching, still nude and clearly not in a hurry to pull on his robe and rush out.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said Sherlock. He hesitated only a moment. “Would you like some tea?”

John smiled and Sherlock nearly grabbed his pencil all over again to capture it. “I’d like that, yeah.” Now John reached for the robe as Sherlock got to his feet and went to fix them both some tea.

When he stepped back out of the kitchen, John was sitting in a chair, not rifling through the pages or even looking at what Sherlock had just drawn, but instead taking in the view outside the window. Clearly he was respecting Sherlock’s privacy.

“You were a soldier,” said Sherlock, handing him a mug.

“I was, yeah. Wounded, as I’m sure you saw. Wasn’t in very long. Was a medic in the army, so I’m training to be a doctor now. So I suppose we both have an interest in anatomy.” He gave Sherlock a smile and a slightly raised eyebrow.

Was he flirting? Sherlock was good at recognizing many things in people, could read a life story in the way a person wore their watch, but he’d never been good at relationships. There’d been a few one night stands, here and there. Long term most didn’t have the patience for him, nor did he have the patience for them. Something about John, though… “I’d like to draw you again,” he said, sipping his tea.

“I’d like that,” said John. “Same time next week?”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock with a nod. 

John finished his tea and set it down. Sherlock fished out the money from his pocket and gave it to him with a smile. John gave him a mock salute. “Until next week,” he said, and slipped out the door.

Sherlock stared at the door for some time, before flipping to a fresh page in the notebook and attempting to capture John Watson’s smile.

**

Two days later Sherlock was heading back to his flat when he heard the sound of a fight. Normally, he’d just keep walking, but just then he heard a familiar voice. “That all you got?”

John’s voice was slurred from drink and anger, but it was unmistakable. Sherlock turned and stepped into the alley, just in time to see John throw a punch that sent his opponent sprawling back into the arms of his friends. Sherlock took the three seconds necessary to memorize the image of John in a fighting stance, blood trickling from his nose, hair a mess and knuckles bruised. His shirt and jeans were dirty and in an instant, Sherlock knew he didn’t have anywhere to stay. Well, he had a solution for that.

“John,” he called.

The smaller man turned just enough to look, but still kept his original opponent in sight, clearly expecting another attacker.

“There you are. I heard you got locked out of the flat,” he lied, “I was just coming home to let you in.”

“You know this bastard?” asked one of the others.

“Course I do, don’t be stupid.” He looked the man up and down. “You’re the one stealing from that one there. Missing a few quid, aren’t you?”

“I am, yeah.” The one he’d named grabbed the other one. “You stealing from me, Colin?”

“Now wait just a…”

Sherlock took the opportunity to grab John by the elbow and pull him away. John leaned down and grabbed a bag before letting Sherlock lead him. It had started raining and John shivered as he wiped the blood from his nose. Sherlock said nothing else as they went the few blocks to his flat and he let him in, leading the way up the stairs and steering him into a chair.

“You had a home two days ago,” said Sherlock stepping into the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

“Got kicked out. Behind on my part of the rent,” said John, looking at the blood on his sleeve.

Sherlock grabbed a towel and brought it to him for his nose. “Well. Simple enough. You stay here, then.”

John snorted, then winced, holding the towel to his face. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you need somewhere to sleep. You can assist me, if you’re worried about payment. I do other work besides university, and someone unafraid of violence would be useful.”

There was a bit of silence as John stared at him, clearly calculating. “And what on earth do you do that it would be useful if I was acquainted with violence?”

“I solve crimes,” he said simply. “Help the police when they’re out of their depth. Which is always.”

John cracked a smile, relief evident on his face. “Okay then. You got a spare room?”

Sherlock looked around the tiny flat. “Actually, no. But I rarely sleep.”

John shrugged. “No worse than the barracks, really.” The walk had clearly sobered him up a bit. “Mind if I take a shower, then?”

“Not at all. Just down the hall.” Sherlock pointed. John picked up his bag and headed down, opening the door to the bedroom first, then the en suite.

Sherlock grabbed the notebook from the coffee table, turned it to another fresh page and furiously started drawing. He was still at it when John came back out, wrapped again in his robe. Sherlock barely noticed when a hot cup of tea was set down just within reach and John pulled a textbook out of his bag. 

When he finished he put down the paper and pencil and stretched, noticing John was gone to bed. He picked up the notebook and crept down the hall.

John was lying on his back, one hand thrown above his head. He looked smaller asleep than awake. Sherlock turned one more page and started sketching again.

**

Yawning, wrapped in his robe, John came out of the bedroom at an early hour. “Did you sleep out here all night?” he asked, frowning a bit.

Sherlock was going through some papers. “I told you, I don’t sleep.”

“You’ve got to sleep sometime,” chided John gently, going into the kitchen to see about breakfast. Sherlock watched him putter, familiarize himself with the kitchen, shifting a couple things around as he put the kettle on.

“I’ve got classes most of the day,” said John from the kitchen. “And a bloody lot of homework.”

“I’ll be sure that your new career in crime fighting doesn’t interfere with your schoolwork,” said Sherlock, finding the paper he was looking for.

John laughed and came back out to give Sherlock a mug of tea before going to finish his breakfast. “I appreciate it. Assistant crime fighting won’t exactly pay the bills.” He seemed a bit more sober as he came back out. “Is helping you really enough to pay my part of the rent?”

“More than fine, John,” said Sherlock distractedly. He barely noticed when John put a bit of toast in his hand.

“All right. Well, I’ll be heading to class then in a few minutes. Ta.”

Sherlock waved him off. The door sounded heavy as it closed.


	2. Chapter 2

They quickly fell into a routine. John attended his classes religiously and slaved over his homework. Now that he had somewhere safe to sleep, he put on a bit of weight, but it suited him. He continued to pose for Sherlock from time to time and thought nothing of it if he went to bed with Sherlock drawing and woke up the same way. Sherlock knew he never peeked in his notebooks, but that didn’t mean that John wasn’t curious.

A week or so later, Sherlock got a text from Scotland Yard. “John, come along.”

John looked at him, but put aside his homework. “Case, I assume?”

“Yes. There’s been a murder and they’d like me to look at it. I hope it’s not one of those boring domestic cases,” he muttered.

John just smiled and pulled on his coat as they went down the stairs and Sherlock grabbed a cab. He didn’t question, just looked out the window. Sherlock memorized the way his face looked reflected in the glass.

They arrived in a few minutes. Sherlock barely introduced John to Lestrade and got to work, moving around the body, making deductions. John knelt next to it without being told and carefully examined the wounds, making his own observations as a doctor might. Sherlock found himself pleased by that almost as much as the praise that fell from John’s lips.

They left the crime scene to do some investigating on their own, which ended up in a chase. John didn’t hesitate to tackle the murderer and keep him pinned until the Yard arrived.

“All that rugby was good for something,” said John modestly as they walked away.

“You’re exceptional,” said Sherlock.

John looked at him and gave him a smile Sherlock had never seen before. “Thanks.”

Sherlock stopped. They were in the shadows of a building, away from the eyes of the Yard. “John…”

“Yes?” he asked, tilting his head a bit.

A thousand words and thoughts went through Sherlock’s head. What he said instead was. “May I draw you when you get home?”

John’s smile softened a bit. “Sure,” he said, stifling a yawn.

“If you’re tired…” said Sherlock quickly.

“No, it’s fine. I’d be happy to pose for you.” John reached out and touched his arm.

Sherlock felt a shiver. “I’ll get us a cab.”

They were silent on the ride back to the flat. Sherlock’s mind whirled, wondering if he was reading everything correctly. They got out and this time it was John who led the way inside and up the stairs. Sherlock took off his coat and scarf. John steered him to his seat and turned on the light before going to his usual spot and pulling his shirt over his head. He kept his eyes on Sherlock as he stripped.

Sherlock’s breath caught, but he picked up his pencil almost automatically. When John was bared before him, he knelt again, this time raising his head. There was a fierceness to his gaze, a hunger. He put his hands behind his back as if they were tied. Sherlock licked his lips and started drawing.

As the first time, John stayed still. Only this time, his cock was at least a little hard. It was already impressive at rest, but now, well. Sherlock drew quickly, knowing he could fill in more details later. He scratched a few more lines, then put the notepad aside.

John licked his lips, remaining otherwise unmoving. Sherlock took in the details, the way the light and shadows fell on his tan skin. The fine blond hair on his body. The way his eyelashes lay across his cheek when he blinked. The way his cock stood in the nest of curly hair.

Swallowing, Sherlock rose from the couch and crossed to John. His gaze remained on the couch, waiting. Sherlock walked to him and ran fingers through his hair. Beautiful. Solid. John. The lines of his body called to him in a way that no one else had. And not just his body but his heart, his mind.

Cupping John’s cheek, he tilted John’s face up to look at him. “John. I want you.”

“I am yours,” said John, voice heated and cock stirring, betraying his lust.

Sherlock knelt before him, drawing him into a kiss, running his tongue along the seam of his lips until John’s mouth parted before him. A moan broke from the former soldier and Sherlock knew, beyond any doubt, that this was just what he wanted. What he needed.

What they both needed.

Sherlock pushed him back onto the rug. He lay on his back, hands clasped above his his head, vulnerable, ready for whatever Sherlock had in mind. John wanted to surrender.

Kissing along his jaw, Sherlock undressed as he trailed kissed down John’s body. “Touch me,” he ordered, laving his tongue over John’s nipple as he tossed his shirt aside.

John’s strong hands smoothed over his shoulders and his back. Somewhere in the notebook was a page of nothing but John’s hands. Smooth and gentle, hard and bruised, clever and precise. Sherlock moaned against his skin, mouthing along his ribs. One of John’s hands came up and tangled in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock moved south, tasting the salt on John's skin from the night's exertions. His tongue darted out to gather the flavor and John huffed a laugh as it evidently tickled his belly. Sherlock looked up and saw that fond smile again on John’s face.

Kneeling back, Sherlock finished shucking his trousers and pants. “Don’t move,” he told John, darting off to the bedroom for lube. He returned to find John still laying out on the carpet, slowly stroking his own cock as he waited. Sherlock froze in place for a moment, once again memorizing the scene before stepping forward.

John looked up at him, hand falling away.

“I want to ride you,” said Sherlock softly. “Would you mind opening me?”

John smiled and nodded, beckoning him to sit next to him. Sherlock did, leaning back on his hands as John rolled over. Instead of taking the lube, however, he grabbed Sherlock’s thighs and pulled him close, tongue darting out against his rim.

Sherlock gasped, then groaned at the sensation. John tugged a thigh to guide him, and in a moment he was straddling John’s face, pulling over a chair and leaning on it for support as John’s wicked tongue pierced him.

“John,” he moaned, rocking against his mouth, gasping with pleasure. John’s finger pressed inside as John sucked one of his bollocks into his mouth and Sherlock keened. It was almost overwhelming, dizzying as he felt himself being opened.

After what seemed a small eternity, John nipped the tender flesh of his thigh to get his attention. Still in a bit of a daze, he let John guide him down until he was straddling his hips. John wiped his mouth and met his gaze. “I am going to fuck you,” he growled, pushing Sherlock down as he thrust up.

Gasping, Sherlock threw his head back, throwing a hand out for balance. John grabbing it and guided it to the middle of his chest, letting Sherlock brace himself as he was filled. Even in the midst of his pleasure, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice the contrast, his pale hand on John’s tan skin. He raised his eyes to meet John’s gaze and thought he might drown in the passion he saw there.

John’s tongue darted out to wet his lips as Sherlock moved on his cock. His hands were strong on Sherlock’s hips, keeping him in place, guiding him, grounding him. Sherlock adjusted his angle and cried out all over again as John struck his prostate.

“Touch yourself,” whispered John, looking at Sherlock’s neglected cock.

Sherlock switched his hand on John’s chest so he could squeeze his cock. He groaned, moving his hand in time with his movements. He felt so full, so alive. Sherlock’s eyes fell shut as he lost himself in the rhythm of it, raising up, sliding back down. The drag of John’s cock, the drag of his hand. And beneath that, the strength of John’s legs, the thunder of his heartbeat underneath Sherlock’s hand.

“I’m close,” he whispered, feeling himself teetering on the edge.

“It’s okay,” said John, squeezing his hips. “Come, Sherlock.”

Groaning, Sherlock spilled over his hand, squeezing around John. John echoed that groan, pulling him down hard and filling him.

Moaning, Sherlock tilted forward until he could rest his head against John’s shoulder, panting. John kissed his head, smoothing hands down his back until their heartbeats slowed. His cock slipped out and Sherlock, reluctantly, rolled over and flopped on the rug next to John, reaching out to hold his hand as he stared at the ceiling.

John rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow as he looked down at Sherlock. His free hand reached out and stroked his fingers up Sherlock’s breastbone to his chin, drawing his gaze back to him. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “And brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled at him, then yawned, feeling boneless and sated.

John chuckled and kissed his forehead. “Come on, bed.”

Sherlock let himself be tugged to his feet and tucked into bed. He heard John going to brush his teeth, but was asleep before John could join him.

**

Sherlock woke early. John had an arm draped over his chest. He woke and gave a sleepy smile to Sherlock as he moved, before leaning in to kiss him.

Kissing him back, Sherlock slipped from bed. Still naked, he went down the hall and picked up his notebook. Only a few pages left. He picked up his pencils and got to work, losing himself in what he was doing.

When Sherlock looked up, he realized he’d drank a cup of tea and eaten toast. John was sitting across from him as he always was, going over his homework yet again. He’d put on a robe. Sherlock looked down at the notebook and quietly closed it.

Nodding to himself, Sherlock stood. Quietly, he crossed over and placed the notebook over John’s schoolbook. John looked up at him, questioning, but Sherlock gave him an encouraging smile before heading to the shower.

Nervously, he washed himself, hoping John would like it, that he wouldn’t find it creepy or disturbing. He pulled on trousers and a robe as he headed back to the living room. John was on the sofa, flipping through the book. “It’s all me,” he said softly. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock, biting back the _obviously_.

John turned back to the first drawing, of himself kneeling with his head bowed. “You make me look beautiful.”

“Because you are,” said Sherlock, sitting next to him and looking over his shoulder.

John shrugged. “Only the way you see me.”

Sherlock reached out and traced his fingers along the back of John’s hand, remembering the way they’d felt on his skin last night. “You never looked in it.”

“Didn’t seem right. It’s your art, after all.” John set the notebook aside. “I saw you’d filled it. If you like, I’ll just help you fill the next one.”

“Really?” Sherlock studied his face.

“I’m not going anywhere.” John leaned in and kissed him gently, with promise. He pulled away and smiled. “In fact, I noticed your notebook was getting full.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as John got up and padded to the bedroom. He returned a moment later and handed Sherlock what was clearly a book wrapped in brown paper. He put his hands behind his back as he watched Sherlock open it.

Of course it was a brand new notebook, perhaps a bit cheaper than the one he’d just filled, but no less useful.

John grinned as Sherlock felt the pages. “Maybe you could do the first drawing now?” He stepped back to his usual spot.

“That is an excellent proposition.” said Sherlock warmly, watching as John took his place.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at [merindab.tumblr.com.](http://merindab.tumblr.com/)


End file.
